Cat People
by merlintriss
Summary: Not all beginnings are as victorious as some.
1. Chapter 1

(A.N. Outside of a limited knowledge of the Batman enterprise from viewings of the Batman movies when I was in the seventh grade, a wish to read the Frank Miller comics, and repeated viewings of Christopher Nolans rethinking, I don't actually know that much about Batman. So think of this as an AU, set after the Dark Knight.)

Chapter 1

People should really take more care with securing their households. What goods a security system if you leave the back door open? Scratch that. What goods a security system when you're dealing with someone who knows about those kinds of things? And its only when you're dealing with the very rich and very paranoid that you even encounter a security system. If you're going small time, its a little broken glass or a picked lock and you're no longer suffering through poverty.

This house is a little more of a challenge. The owners are some Gotham hot shot defense attorneys. I think they represented Marconi in days past, though they moonlight as probono do-gooders. I know personally that they have a rather large stash of Babylonian relics in their gallery, the kind that you only get from doing deals with people who rip off Middle Eastern museums. And those kinds of antiques are the ones that sell on the black market incredibly well.

I'm no Robin Hood. I don't steal from those who should be stolen from, just the ones with the stuff that'll get my girls a little time off the streets. Nothing pays for a break better than a some stolen property that was ilegal to possess anyway.

The security system was a joke really, just a little playing with the relays, a little rewiring, and they'll think this was an inside job. Inside, I check and make sure my recon is right. Nothing kills a job like this then finding out that the man of the house, whose usually right now drinking whiskey and having phone sex with his mistress from the Narrows, is actually having a midnight snack. Luckily, he is, and his wife is curled up in her bed, downed with sleeping pills as usual. If people wouldn't make it this easy...

The gallery is right where the plans say it'll be. Luckily for my boredom, there are plenty of traps and lasers to occupy my interest for at least fifteen minutes. Burglarizing is a far better passtime than anything else I've tried. More mentally stimulating and physically demanding then my day job, thats for sure. And the artifacts are just the regular ethno-trash that rich filth pay so much for, so that their art collections can have a little culture. I'm happy to oblige. As much as it would probably piss off the people who care so much about keeping art where it was created, its probably safer in some fancy art collection than Iraq.

The black bag I brought explicitly for the purpose is quickly filled, and I'm making my way out when I hear a glass drop. Shit. I knew I was getting out of this too quickly.

"Batman?" His voice is a little too high, and he's apparently a little too drunk to realize the obvious anatomical differences.

"Can't you recognize a lady when you see one?" I say, facing him before I make my way out of the second story window. Cats always land on their feet.

(A.N. Sorry about the first person narrative. I don't normally write like this. I just felt that for the introduction, it made more sense. I'll probably change to second or third person. Also, its almost 2 in the morning, so I'm sure my writing has suffered for that. I apologize. Review please...) 


	2. Chapter 2

K.D. Sparrow-Thanks for reading, hope you keep enjoying it.

(A.N. Sorry, I'm switching perspectives, but I can't stand writing in first. When thinking of her outfit, think more a cross between Tim Burton Catwoman and this one /stories/0510/17/catwoman51.jpg and less of the Halle Berry catwoman.)

Selena gently put the bag down on the long sofa, shedding the pointed cap she wore during her burglarizing. She was tired, the adrenaline from the heist finally wearing down. A lot of her life before she took up the pointed ears took place at night, but now it was maybe a little more strenous.

She started to unzip the front of her cat suit, pausing when she reached the mirror. The broad expanse of white flesh from her neck to her belly button was exposed, and she traced the faint scars she found there. That was the first reason she had shifted her night job and started subsidizing her income. They were faint now, much fainter than they had been when...

A knock at the door shifted her thoughts to the present, and she zipped up the front of the suit before turning around, ashamed at her own modesty.

"Come in," she called back at the door as she pulled on a red floor length robe and tied the fabric loosely around her waist. Candy came in, her back rigid straight. Selena knew it was from years of ballet training in a strict as nails rich household. God knows what she was doing here.

"Ma'am," Candy bowed her head a little before returning to her strict posture. The whole ballet ideal was carried through in her outfit, a tight fitting pink leather corset and loose white skirt. Candy was supposed to represent purity, and she pulled it off very well.

"Yes?"

"You asked to be told when Mr. Cordelone came to visit again. He's here, with Scarlet."

"What room?"

"12."

"Okay. Thank you Candy. You can go back to work." After she left, she pulled off the robe, leaving it trailing on the thick carpetted floor. Selena had to change quickly. Her identity as that Cat Burglar was not something she wished to share with her girls. She changed quickly into her regular ensemble, a loose fitting black dress with a deep neckline and no back. Revealing, but with enough mystery to leave men guessing. It was fitting to her profession. A little bit of concealer turned faint scars into smooth skin. She was ready for her close up.

Mr. Cordelone was a common guest of Selena's establishments. He was also a mob underboss and untouchable to most of the underworld. But here, in the deepest parts of the Narrows, where the cops didn't come unless they were in force, and the mobsters didn't come for anything but pleasure, down here was where Selenas ruled. And Mr. Cordelone had his last visit.

The building was a collection of rooms, low lit and generally dingy. Even a high class woman like Selena couldn't get the dirt out that was so pervasive in the Narrows. Each room was soundproofed and padded down so they were, in effect, individual homes. Privacy was a must in such a business.

Room 12 was on the end, set into the shadows of an already dim hallway. Scarlet knew Selena needed to speak to her client, and as such was supposed to be teasing him, not engaging him, when she found her way to the room. As expected, he was shirtless and flustered when Selena swept in, sending Scarlet out to find a new patron in the swarming dance club below. She rested her back against the door as he attempted to regain his dignity.

"Mr. Cordelone, you have nothing I haven't seen before, so if you can stop fidgeting, we need to get down to business. I have a lot of work to do. This entire encounter is cutting into my prime working hours," an air of practiced impatience came with relative ease, something she was amused to notice he did not have.

"Um...Selena...to what do i owe this dubious..." he murmured and stuttered, barely holding himself together. He knew why she was there.

"Honor? Why it is an honor for me to be here. Its not every day scum little woman-beaters like you get to interact with a woman of my social class and dignity. And I'm a madame, Mr. Cordelone. Can you imagine how low that makes you?" She smirked before reaching under her dress to her upper thigh and pulling out a small black pistol.

"What...what..are you doing?"

"Why don't you tell me about Trish, Mr. Cordelone?" he gulped, but Selena wasn't letting him off that easy, "oh, you can't remember the women you beat? Trish, Mr. Cordelone, was your escort three nights ago. You found her on the corner of fifth and Mercator, in a blue dress. You took her to your place, and then you proceeded to beat the shit out of her because you couldn't get it up. Now you might be wondering how I might know about this common whore of yours. Well, the answer is simple. What kind of business woman would I be if I only have one location?" she smirked as understanding hit him, "Ah, now you see. You see, don't you, that these streets, Mr. Cordelone, belong to me. These streets are mine and you have no chance of ever getting a hooker again. If you want sex, Mr. Cordelone, you're going to have to do it the old fashioned way."

Selena made to seem as if she was leaving, but she was far from done. As Mr. Cordelone visibly and audibly relaxed, letting out a sigh as her back was turned, she turned again, and shot once into his knee. He buckled and yelled in obvious pain.

"Its pointless, Mr. Cordelone. See, these rooms are soundproof. Yell all you want, and the only person thats going to hear you is me. And I don't care. Now, once you've cleaned yourself up, I want you to leave a nice big tip for Scarlet for working you up so nicely, and then I want you to leave. Okay? And you will never get a woman from the Narrows again? Okay? Now, Mr. Cordelone, i have business to attend to. I'm sure you understand. Please try and keep your blood off the carpet. Its rather impolite not to."

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	3. Chapter 3

(A.N.-in response to the anonymous review someone posted on this chapter, the title of this story is actually based off the 1942 film, which I saw a little over a year ago. Kudoes, by the way, to whoever can get the connection between Cat People and Selena Kyle.)

Chapter 3

In what seemed like a world away, but was actually not that far from the Narrows, a ruffled billionaire sat watching the world go by. His tie was undone, hanging loosely out of his white collared shirt, and his hair was more than artfully mussed. Beyond his window was a world he once thought he understood, but was incapable of fully comprehending. Gotham, which he had faithfully protected in his capacity of masked avenger, was against him, more so than before. It could be his darkest night, and besides Alfred, he was alone.

Last night had been another round of avoidance. He had succesfully apprehended the right guy, a small time crook by the name of John Masters, who had a long history of selling dope to teenagers, but that wasn't enough for the public anymore. After the deaths, after the loss of Harvey Dent, nothing had been enough. He had taken the weight of several murders on his shoulders and that was not easily forgiven. Harvey Dent had gone down as a city hero, and in his absence, tougher laws were being enacted and greater things were being done. At least that had occured. On the downside, Batman, the cities Dark Knight, had become evil in a sense. They relied on him to get rid of their dirty laundry, but publically, every official was decrying him, calling for his arrest. Every offical except Gordon. Though at the beginning, he had called for Batmans arrest, the new police comissioner had quickly gone silent. But his lack of support did nothing to quiet the dissenters.

Alfred entered, his proper attire stiffly buttoned up. He set down a small glass of alcohol, what is was was of no consequence, and quietly left without a word. Normally, he would try and impart a small token of wisdom from his own experience, anything to push away the shadows that seemed to envelope the normally stoic Bruce Wayne, but now he chose the path of least resistance, leaving his charge to his own thoughts.

Carefully, he stretched, feeling the muscles and skin in his back protest. A week ago a swift young man, now on trial for murder, had managed to draw his blade across Bruce's back. It was a lucky shot, right between the layers of Kevlar he had built up for the purpose of protection. It hadn't been as deep as some of the other hits he had accumulated, but its uncomfortable placing made soem of his more acrobatic maneuvers impossible.

Normally, in the life of Bruce Wayne, he would be required to get up at a decent time to do some billionaire meet and greets. However, for one of the first times in his life, the worlds of billionaire and vigilante meshed. To the outside world, he was a man suffering through the loss of his greatest and longest friends, the ADA Rachel Dawes. People didn't expect him to be out and about. Publically, Bruce Wayne began a call to support public agencies that fought crime. He started funds in her honor, all while privately cursing his own audacity. Starting a charity to honor someone whose death he still felt responsible for? Did he have no shame?

Tomorrow, he could sleep late, though he doubted he could make it through without dreaming of her face. He had more criminals to deal with, the regular mob, a possible serial killer who slits the throats of his victims, a small time cat-burglar with big time victims, and a nightclub owner that Bruce found suspicious. There were so many people he needed to catch, so many people who commmitted crimes and thought they could get away with them. Not to mention the fact that the Jokers trial was up soon. Devoid of face paint and his own suit, dressed in prisoners orange, he was still a terrifying sight-one Bruce wasn't sure he could face in either of his incarnations.

There was little doubt in the minds of Gotham that the once painted villian was guilty of his crimes. He was up for the death penalty, and the new DA had offered several times for a deal. But the Joker, called John Smith in court documents since he still refused to give his original name, wished to make the court room into his own circus and would not plead out. Bruce knew that this was going to become the "trial of the century." He just hoped it would be over quickly.

There may come a day when Gotham didn't need Batman. But Bruce Wayne wasn't sure there would come a day when he didn't need Batman.

(A.N. Read and Review.) 


	4. Chapter 4

(A.N. Thanks for continuing to read. Sorry for taking so long to update.)

Chapter 4

Morning didn't come soon enough, though in the Narrows, a constant level of fog and despondence covering the narrow streets, it was hard to tell when night broke into dawn.

Some of the girls started on their way home, accompanied, of course, by a couple of the thugs she hired to watch the doors. They knew the ground rules. You touch a girl who doesn't want to be touched, you never touch a girl again. Selena protected her women.

She tried to remember a time when she had been one of those women, walking the streets at night in PVC and lace, trying to attract buyers, trying to make enough money to pay for an apartment that was too small, to live in a home that wasn't really a home. She and a couple of other girls like her "lived" in an apartment sized room at the end of a dark street, with a pot dealer. The dealer was a woman too, and she kept her business seperate, and so did they.

Men were dogs. She learned that quickly. Whether they worked good jobs or sold drugs on street corners, whether they had families or lived alone. All men were dogs. And she had the scars to prove it.

Today she had to go fence stolen items with Rufus. Rufus was probably one of the few men she got along with, and that was only because he knew how the game was played. They didn't get their signals crossed.

She told Candy to watch the shop, operate while she ran a few errands. She was almost positive Candy knew what she did with her time, but the girl very rarely let anything on. Which was why she was so good at her job. Talkative girls didn't last in this kind of career. You didn't talk out of school.

Rufus lived in the narrows, one of the few men she knew who was crippled and still lived in this place. People in wheelchairs were considered really easy targets in a place this rough, but Rufus had lived long enough to make himself known to those around town. Rufus was not a target. And he wasn't easy.

She knocked on the door, the wood rough on her knuckles. The door opened, a shot gun pointed squarely at her middle. She pushed it out of her way with her hand.

"Selena, how nice to see you," Rufus's voice came from about her hip and she looked down at him with a smile, "I take it you brought me some new toys?"

"You're the only person I can think of that considers Ancient Mesopotamian art to be a toy."

"You know, my dear, that I consider it toys with the highest respect."

"Naturally Rufus." She carefully took the items out of her bag, setting them on the workbench Rufus had cleared off. His tattooed arms lifted up the closest piece to examine it.

"You always bring me the nicest stuff," he looked over each item with a practiced eye, "I think I can get you a couple grand, maybe more."

"Shit, Rufus, you know you have to get me more than that."

"You brought me nice stuff. That's not the problem. It's from Iraq. Its still hot. I have to unload this fast, and on very specific collectors. They and I both know that I can't sell it to anyone else. They're going to lowball me, so I have to do the same to you," he looked at her, thin spectacles resting on the end of his nose, "I wouldn't cheat you Selena. We've worked together for too long. I think that affords you a certain amount of respect. Anyone else and I would've offered a couple hundred, and they would've been on their way none the wiser."

"That only buys my girls a day. Not even really a day. More like a long lunch break." She took the money he offered anyone.

"Never should've been a madam, Selena. You've got too much of a heart."

"Should've married you when you asked, Rufus, but thats in the past. Years come and go, and we're only left with our mistakes," she walked out the door, Rufus looking over the stuff again. There was one collector in general he knew would be very interested in this kind of material.

The first call he made was to Wayne Industries to schedule an appoitment with Mr. Bruce Wayne himself. The man had an eye for fine quality goods, especially of an illegal nature.

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